Susan's postings
Here are two poems to look at (one from our trip to San Ant.) I'm sorry they're crammed all the way to the left of the page. Also, the line spacing on the second one is weird . . . who knows why?! I'd love any suggestions, comments, etc.
Over Texas
We descend.
Tin roofs glint,
a river forks
through scrubby flats.
Highways, thin as threads,
etch into browned grasses.
Below is a land
scratched at with shovels,
where man’s deeds,
small and quickly silent,
look like boys’ names
carved into school desks.
It’s a country laid open
from heat.
If we go down here,
over Texas,
into the untroubled land,
our handbags scattering
into the desert’s mirage,
who will gather up
our lost hunger
for rain-streaked sidewalks,
our parking tickets,
and city blues?
Things That Are Almost
On the fullest nights the moon lets out a sigh, loosens its belt, and makes false promises to ovals and other maybes. How hard it is to be perfectly round. Things that are almost round, like periwinkles, try to be rounder, when the moon is at its plumpest. This is true of hens’ eggs and walnuts, flat tires and freckles, clementines, ponds, and sickled cells. (Even Jupiter bulges about the middle.) But from space doesn’t the earth seem so? From there our globe sings out “o” from the center of gloria-- you can’t see its crust crowded with pockmarks, holes in its soul-- until the moon sets to waning and the glory of the world passes on.
Here are two poems to look at (one from our trip to San Ant.) I'm sorry they're crammed all the way to the left of the page. Also, the line spacing on the second one is weird . . . who knows why?! I'd love any suggestions, comments, etc.
Over Texas
We descend.
Tin roofs glint,
a river forks
through scrubby flats.
Highways, thin as threads,
etch into browned grasses.
Below is a land
scratched at with shovels,
where man’s deeds,
small and quickly silent,
look like boys’ names
carved into school desks.
It’s a country laid open
from heat.
If we go down here,
over Texas,
into the untroubled land,
our handbags scattering
into the desert’s mirage,
who will gather up
our lost hunger
for rain-streaked sidewalks,
our parking tickets,
and city blues?
Things That Are Almost
On the fullest nights
the moon lets out a sigh,
loosens its belt,
and makes false promises
to ovals and other maybes.
How hard it is
to be perfectly
round.
Things that are almost
round, like periwinkles,
try to be rounder,
when the moon
is at its plumpest.
This is true
of hens’ eggs and walnuts,
flat tires and freckles,
clementines, ponds,
and sickled cells.
(Even Jupiter bulges
about the middle.)
But from space
doesn’t the earth
seem so?
From there our globe
sings out “o”
from the center of gloria--
you can’t see
its crust crowded
with pockmarks,
holes in its soul--
until the moon sets
to waning
and the glory of the world
passes on.